If At First You Don't Succeed Call in the Experts
by snooky-9093
Summary: After multiple failed attempts at sending two trapped British airmen back to England, frustrated British intelligence phones a friend. Will Hogan and his team succeed where Michelle of the Resistance has failed? Will Helga drop Flick after looking into Hogan's eyes? Will LeBeau teach Madame Edith to carry a tune? And where will the famous painting end up? stay tuned!
1. Chapter 1

_If at First, You Don't Succeed...Call in the Experts_

 _An_ _Allo, Allo/Hogan's Heroes_ crossover

A response to the "Listen very carefully, I shall say this only once," challenge posted in the HH forums.

 _Note regarding language. In the series, "Allo, Allo," all the actors spoke English with various accents. It was understood that the French were speaking French, the Germans, German, the British, English, etc. The German characters obviously understood French as they held conversations with the civilians. This usage of language made the show even funnier_.

* * *

 _Nouvion, France, 1943_

René Artois hummed absentmindedly to himself as he wiped down the bar. The café was not yet busy, as most of his customers, both the Germans and the townspeople, were still at work. He scratched his head, trying to recall the British airmen's current hiding place. He had to remind Edith to take them their evening meal.

"René."

Smiling, he turned as he heard the throaty and sensual voice of his head waitress, Yvette.

"Yes, my dear."

Yvette's face told the story. "You are wanted in the back room. Michelle of the Resistance is here."

"Oh, heck." René threw his cloth down in disgust. "At least we are not busy. Mimi, watch the bar."

As René followed Yvette through the doors, he noticed that his wife, Edith, was already in the back room. Michelle, dressed in her usual raincoat, beret and Mary Janes, was waiting by the table.

"What is it, now?" René asked in the exasperated tone he reserved especially for Michelle.

She motioned for the three to come over to the table, then bent down. "Listen very carefully; I shall say this only once."

The three learned long ago not to reply.

"The British are not happy with our efforts to send the two airmen back to England. They are getting impatient."

"Gee, I wonder why," René muttered, eliciting a glare from Michelle.

"I can't imagine," she replied. "They are sending us experts."

René frowned. "Not another agent who thinks he can speak French."

Michelle rolled her eyes. "No, the agents - there will be two - are not British. I know nothing more except they come very highly recommended. They will come here."

"Of course." René had no faith. All of Michelle's over-elaborate plots failed. He was afraid he would be stuck with the two Brits until the end of the war, or until he was shot for the second time, whatever came first. "And how will we know when they arrive?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"A peasant disguised as a rutabaga salesman will come into the café. He will give you the information."

"Rutabagas? Of all the idiotic-they aren't even in season," René complained.

His wife shushed him. "We will do what you ask, Michelle. For France."

"Where are the airmen?" Michelle asked. "I want to let them know of the latest plan."

Yvette pointed to the table in the middle of the room. It was covered with a tablecloth, and set with two large covered dishes in the middle. The waitress walked over and removed both the covers, and within seconds, two heads popped up.

"Hello!" Both airmen said simultaneously.

Michelle greeted the two in English. "Hello, chaps. Have an update for you. London is sending in two experts to help get you out. I hear they have a 98 percent success rate."

"Splendid!" answered Carstairs.

"Jolly good," replied Fairfax. "Perhaps we'll make it home in time for rowing season."

"Righto! Back down you go." Michelle replaced the two covers and walked over to the window. "And now I will go with the wind. I have an appointment with my hairdresser," she added before exiting the backroom.

* * *

It was not long before the rutabaga salesman showed up in the café. René was at the bar, as usual. The girls were serving the customers, and of course, German occupiers were in the café enjoying a brief respite from Madame Edith's singing. She was upstairs caring for her mother.

The bells at the door jangled, and René looked up. "Oh, my God."

"Rutabagas! Who will buy my nice fresh rutabagas?" An elderly man with the vegetables strung around his neck stumbled into the café.

Quickly, René came from around the bar. "Come here, old peasant. I can use rutabagas," he said loud enough for the many Germans in the bar to hear. Not for the first time, he wondered why they never saw through the disguises, if you could call it that. "Here come over to the bar." He guided the man over and then gave him a look.

"It is I," the peasant lifted his glasses. "LeClerc."

"Are you mad? This place is crawling with Germans," René repeated for the umpteenth time.

"I have word from Michelle of the Resistance. Two men disguised as Luftwaffe officers, one Major and one Lieutenant, will be arriving. They are the ones sent by London. One is tall, the other short. The short one is French, and will translate."

"Thank goodness for small favors," René responded when hearing that one agent was a native. "And when will these two be arriving?" He asked LeClerc.

The elderly forger shrugged his shoulders. "I am not a calendar, monsieur. They will arrive when they arrive."

* * *

Hogan stared incredulously at the piece of blue paper handed to him by his radio operator and second-in-command. He then looked up at his radioman, then back down at the piece of paper. Kinch stood still, hands clasped behind his back. Only his raised eyebrow betrayed a hint of bemusement or despair. The others gathered around the table couldn't be sure; but the look on their commander's face convinced them to keep their mouths shut for the time being.

Finally, Hogan spoke, "Is this an April fool's joke?"

"That was my initial reaction, sir," Kinch replied. "Except it's July."

Hogan let out a whistle, and then ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. "They are insane. Certifiably insane."

Finally, Newkirk could no longer stand the suspense and cleared his throat. "Care to enlighten those of us in the cheap seats, guv'nor?"

The colonel leaned forward in his chair. "Remember the message we had last week about helping two British airmen get back to England?"

"Sure, Colonel. Their local units ran into issues, and they had several aborted attempts," Carter answered.

"Did we get more information?" LeBeau asked as he went to check on the soup bubbling on the stove. He took a sip, grimaced and then made a face. "I don't know how I can make something edible with these rations," he complained, sprinkling salt into the liquid.

Hogan ignored the chef's comments. Anything LeBeau managed to scrounge up was at least somewhat edible, and everyone in the barracks knew it. "There is more information coming," he stated. "But apparently these men are holed up in France."

"Oh!" LeBeau's eyes lit up and he put down the spoon. "Across the border? That's a bit far, but we can handle it. I volunteer." He stepped forward.

"No, LeBeau. Not just across the border. They are in a place called Nouvion. Ever hear of it?"

LeBeau shook his head. "It must be small."

"It's not far from the coast, about the same distance to us as Paris. Taking these chances for two airmen is nuts. Unless…" Hogan turns to Kinch. "Did the code get scrambled or something?"

"I'm sure I got it right, Colonel." Kinch showed no discomfort at his work being insulted.

"Send a message confirming location and if these two airmen are special," Hogan ordered. "This has to be a mistake."

"This is no mistake," Kinch reported a half-hour later. LeBeau put a bowl of soup in front of the radioman, who took a sip and nodded in appreciation.

"It's ridiculous." LeBeau complained as they pored over a map of France. Nouvion was so small they needed a magnifying glass to find it. "Any resistance cell should be able to smuggle these men to the coast and get them to England." He looked over at Hogan.

"They tried and failed multiple times," Hogan reported with a hint of disgust. He sighed. "The coast is heavily defended. We're the experts, they said. They are dropping more information tonight. LeBeau, you and Newkirk will meet the plane."

"Righto, Colonel," Newkirk stated.

"It's one thing to smuggle ourselves to Paris to get intelligence and to rescue a Manet," Hogan stated. "But to a small town near the coast to get airmen?" (1)

"If anyone can think of how to pull this off, you can, sir!"

"Thanks for your vote of confidence, Carter." Hogan sat back in the chair and crossed his arms. He remained silent for several minutes as the men in the barracks went about their business.

Finally, Olsen spoke the words crossing everyone's mind.

"Having second thoughts, Colonel?"

The colonel sighed. "Yeah. This just screams trap in bright lights. I'll wait to see what info is being dropped tonight, but it's going to take a lot of convincing to not have me defy orders this one time."

 _Later that night..._

Hogan, seated at the table, examined pages of coded messages that lay in front of him. He had transcribed just the first two, and that was enough to convince him to read further. He looked up as Newkirk and LeBeau climbed up the ladder and shut the bunk mechanism.

"We're not defying orders," Hogan stated firmly to his captive audience.

"Oi, sir. Going clear across an entire country and then getting back 'ere. That's a bit too much to ask. Who are these blighters anyway? Why can't they just surrender? Related to someone 'igh up in the government, I bet they are."

"I don't know, Newkirk, and it doesn't make a difference who they are or whom they are related to. We're going in. This involves a lot more than two British airmen," Hogan stated. "As long as these airmen are around, Nighthawk is in jeopardy."

"Non, not that Nighthawk!" LeBeau's hand flew to his mouth.

"Yes, that Nighthawk," Hogan repeated.

"Reminds me of Tiger, sir," Kinch stated, recalling the time Hogan defied orders to rescue the leader of the local French resistance from the hands of the Paris Gestapo. (2)

"Sorry for coming in late to the party." Lieutenant Mitchell, the only other Allied officer in camp, stepped forward. Given the odd nature of the mission, Hogan requested the Lieutenant's presence. Mitchell entered his barracks tunnel entrance after roll call, and showed up in Barracks 2 to wait for Newkirk and LeBeau to return. "Who is Nighthawk?"

"Oh, blimey," Newkirk patted the Lieutenant's shoulder. "Who isn't Nighthawk? He's a legend, he is."

"A brave French citizen." Tears began to form in LeBeau's eyes, as he began to recite Le Marseillaise.

"We've heard tales of his bravery," said Garlotti.

"His derring-do," Carter added.

"His ingenuity," Olsen said.

"His cunning." Kinch nodded in appreciation.

"But who is he?" Mitchell turned to the rest of the barracks.

"I have no idea," Hogan answered. "In fact, I didn't know he operated near Nouvion."

"Or she." Newkirk lit a cigarette.

"Yes, or she." Hogan nodded in agreement. "So, in order to preserve Nighthawk's operation, we obviously need to step in and try and help out. I have our place of contact. We'll be disguised as two Luftwaffe officers. LeBeau, you're coming with. I'll need you as a translator." Hogan noticed the disappointed looks on the rest of the men. "Sorry, fellas. This is hard enough as it is. I can't take any more men. Mitchell, you will be my surrogate when I am gone. The usual chain of command is in effect."

"Everything seems in order, Colonel. But, how you are going to get there and back? And how are you going to explain your absence?" Mitchell asked. "This isn't an overnight trip."

"Good question. Once we send a coded message, the RAF will be sending a plane to pick us up, and LeBeau and I will parachute in. Each time they have tried to land a plane in that area, the rescue has failed. So, it's up to us to figure out how to get the two men back. Since the coast is so heavily defended, I'm thinking of getting a car, taking them back here as our prisoners, and using our route. We'll need ID's, the usual paperwork, etcetera. The problem is explaining our absence." Hogan, hoping for any ideas, looked up at his men.

"How about getting Major Teppel to take you away again, Colonel?" This suggestion came from Goldman.

"He was recalled after that mission in Berlin, remember?" Hogan reminded everyone. "He wasn't sure if the Gestapo officer would remember his name, and intelligence didn't want to take any more chances. After he sent Klink the report, he vanished. Right back to the United States." (3)

"Yeah, I remember." Goldman went over to his bunk and sat.

"Good idea, though. Anyone else?" Hogan asked. "We could be gone at least a week, maybe more."

"You still have your appendix, Colonel?" asked Barnes.

"Yeeesss. And why?"

"What if you have an appendix attack? Go to the hospital to get it out, but not really. That should take care of two weeks at least. Oh, wait. That doesn't take care of LeBeau. Two cases at the same time? That's too much of a coincidence."

"And Klink would definitely visit him in the hospital." Davis poked his friend.

"A really contagious disease." It was now Garlotti's turn to offer up an idea. "Both you and LeBeau are quarantined in the infirmary. Klink is scared of his own shadow. He'll be afraid of getting sick. We can rotate men in and out of there so you can be counted."

"That may be doable, although it's a bit chancy." Hogan smiled at Garlotti. "Anyone else?"

"Why don't you use LeBeau's talents to your advantage, Colonel?" Mitchell held up his hand. "I think I have something. Something like a prisoner swap. We draw up fake orders, and Klink gets a request to send LeBeau somewhere to cook. A high-level meeting, or another camp. Naturally, you won't send him anywhere without you going as well. Make sure Schultz goes with. You shake him. And off you go."

Hogan walked over to the Lieutenant and gave him a friendly pat on the back. "That's not a bad idea, Mitchell. You're getting the hang of this. You know, I like that. LeBeau you'll make a big stink of course."

"Bien sur."

"And I'll get a lot of concessions," Hogan said. "That will be icing on the cake. All right. First thing tomorrow morning, we start Operation Nouvion."

* * *

"I refuse." LeBeau stomped his foot, crossed his arms, and looked away from the Kommandant in a show of defiance worthy of an Oscar.

"You see, sir. I told you he wouldn't agree." Hogan, who stood next to LeBeau, examined his nails in the nonchalant bored manner he had perfected. "And even if he did, I wouldn't allow it. The Geneva Convention specifically forbids…"

"That is not exactly true." Klink rose from his chair and wagged his finger at Hogan. "Prisoners work. This is work camp. You know that. And they are fairly compensated. LeBeau will be well-paid for his talents."

"Like I have someplace to go to spend the money." LeBeau sniffed.

"He has a good point, Kommandant. But, I said no. I wouldn't send one of my men to another location. For a week? How can I trust he'll be safe? Not all Germans are as humane as you are, sir. Strict but humane. Remember F.I.N.K." (4)

"Yes, yes, Hogan. You do have a point. Imagine this General Kinchmeyer having the nerve to ask me to send a prisoner to cook for his staff retreat for an entire week." Klink sat back down in his chair. "You're dismissed."

"Thank you, sir. Come on, LeBeau." Hogan and LeBeau headed for the door. "Wait. Did you say Kinchmeyer?" Hogan asked.

"I did say Kinchmeyer." Klink looked up from the report on his desk. "Why?"

Hogan leaned forward, both his hands now on the edge on the desk. "Well, I don't know what happened to the last man saying no to this general. That's all." He stood up. "We'll be going."

"Wait! Hogan what have you heard?"

"Well, if you must know, I heard someone who heard someone say that a colonel, like yourself, sir…Kinchmeyer asked for his prison barber. In addition, well, he could not spare him. Next thing he knew; he was in the coach section of the Siberian Express."

Klink gulped. "Hogan. I am ordering LeBeau to cook for this man."

Hogan began to laugh. "Like I said, I'm not allowing LeBeau to go into a lion's den by himself. Maybe if I was there to keep an eye out…"

"Mon Colonel. I refuse to cook for these Bosch."

"LeBeau, Colonel Hogan will go with you." Klink had the look of a beggar on his face.

Hogan then grabbed LeBeau's arm. "One moment, Kommandant." He whispered in LeBeau's ear, and the Frenchman nodded.

"We'll make a deal. One extra hour of electricity for all barracks the week we are gone. Plus two extra slices of white bread a day for each man."

"Done."

"And each man gets an extra hot shower this month," Hogan added.

"You're going too far."

"Not going."

Klink capitulated. "Electricity, bread and shower. General Kinchmeyer's truck will be here tomorrow afternoon."

"You strike a hard bargain, Kommandant." Hogan learned early on that with Klink, flattery was the best policy.

As he and LeBeau walked back to the barracks, LeBeau stopped the colonel. "What if Klink hadn't agreed and the deal was off?"

"Plan B. Contagious disease," Hogan stated. "But seriously, what were the chances of that happening," he said, confident in his capability of hoodwinking the Kommandant, yet again.

* * *

1) Art for Hogan's Sake

2) A Tiger Hunt in Paris

3) A Bad Day in Berlin

4) Stands for Firm, Impartial, Nazi, Kommandant from Klink, A Bomb, and a Short Fuse.


	2. Chapter 2

The following afternoon, several members of the Underground, disguised as Kinchmeyer's staff, arrived in the compound to pick up LeBeau and Hogan. They drove them a safe distance, and then LeBeau and Hogan returned to camp via the emergency entrance. That night, equipped with papers, weapons, uniforms and maps, they met a British plane in a nearby field. Within seconds, they were safely inside, and the plane took off for France.

All flights over occupied Europe were risky. That thought, and the fact that he and LeBeau were heading completely across France to rescue two stranded British airmen, an odd mission that, now that he thought about it, seemed to be out of Colonel Crittendon's playbook, made Hogan extra wary. His stomach was a bundle of nerves, and LeBeau seemed to be faring no better. Every time the colonel looked over at his flying companion, LeBeau's limbs were in motion.

"Nervous?" Hogan asked.

"Now that you mention it, this all seems a bit ridiculous."

"It seemed to make a lot more sense back at camp," Hogan agreed. He sighed. "But we confirmed these were actual orders. And Nighthawk needs our help."

"Oui," LeBeau whispered. "Well, I do recall hearing something about Nouvion."

"Thought you never heard of it," Hogan reminded him.

"There's a French Michelin guide in the tunnel. I had a chance to look at it."

"Oh? That café listed in there?"

LeBeau snorted. "Non. But there is a famous painting housed in Nouvion. Hopefully, the Boche haven't stolen it, like they have everything else. The Fallen Madonna by Van Clomp. That refreshed my memory."

"Ah." Hogan nodded. "Sorry, but I've never heard of it."

"I've never seen it in person, of course, Colonel. But I've seen a photo. It is quite, how do you say it? Striking." With his hands, LeBeau made a circular motion in front of his chest.

"I'm not following you. What is this?" Hogan repeated the motion.

LeBeau whispered in his ear.

Hogan nodded in appreciation. "That big, huh?"

"So they say," LeBeau replied.

"We're approaching the drop zone," came the announcement from the flight deck.

Hogan and LeBeau did not jump right outside of Nouvion. Their contacts in London arranged a meeting with another resistance unit located 50 kilometers away.

Headlights flashed a short distance from where they landed. They were in a field, surrounded by woods on three sides. "Good landing," Hogan commented, as he pointed in the direction of the vehicle. He and LeBeau gathered up their parachutes and belongings, and hurried towards the man heading in their direction.

"This way," said the man as they approached. "Quickly, please." He led them to a truck; the driver, a young woman, remained silent as the three piled into the back. She quickly took off, leaving the woods and heading down a road. After about a half a kilometer, she turned off onto a dirt road, which wound its way up a hill and into what appeared to be a large farm. A minute later, she pulled up next to a farmhouse.

The four exited the truck, and entered the farmhouse.

The house was small, but comfortable. Hogan and LeBeau sat at a large wooden table located in the living area. Despite the time of year, a fire roared in the fireplace.

"You may call me Jacque," said the man. He was middle-aged, and now that they had some light, Hogan and LeBeau could see he was dressed as a farmer. The girl, who introduced herself as Louise, looked like Jacques, and the POW's guessed she was the farmer's daughter.

"These are not our real names, of course," Jacques explained in broken English.

"Of course," Hogan replied. "Same here."

"I understand you are going to Nouvion disguised as Luftwaffe officers," Jacques stated.

"Correct. I understand you have transportation? Thank you, Louise," Hogan said as he accepted a hot drink from the young woman.

"Yes." Jacques took a sip. He then switched to French. "One of our contacts will deliver a car to you tomorrow at 10 am. You should arrive in Nouvion by lunchtime. We do not know your business there, nor do we care." He and Louise exchanged glances. "Just be careful. There are rival resistance cells in the area, and they hate each other. And, how do I put this? Their main resistance unit is not as useful as they would have you believe."

"What do you know about Nighthawk?" LeBeau asked with concern.

"We do not know who he or she is," said Jacques. "But we have heard great things. Word gets around."

LeBeau translated the information. After another round of drinks, he and Hogan left for their hiding place.

* * *

After becoming familiar with the Kübelwagen delivered to them the following morning, Hogan and LeBeau took off for Nouvion. As usual, their paperwork was flawless, and they easily passed through several checkpoints. They began speaking in German to each other once they were on the outskirts of town. Following a map, they pulled up next to the café at 1300 hours.

"Park it over there, next to that little tank," Hogan directed LeBeau.

"Right, Major."

"Well, here goes nothing," Hogan said to himself as he and LeBeau left the vehicle. The walked over to the restaurant, and were ignored by the patrons seated outside.

They opened the door to Café René, and walked in.

Mimi was the first staff member to notice the newcomers. She quickly and rudely plopped down the glasses of wine in front of the two German soldiers she was waiting on, and hurried over to the bar.

"René," she said in a loud whisper.

The café owner was busy putting bills in the till. He slammed the drawer shut, and turned.

"What is it?" he asked, annoyed at the interruption.

"Look." Mimi pointed. "The two Luftwaffe officers." The two men-one tall, one short-were perusing the busy café, looking for an empty table. There were none, so the two walked over to the bar.

"Welcome to Café René, officers," René said in a higher-pitched voice.

"Looks like we are in time for lunch," the shorter one said in perfect French. "Do you have fresh snails by any chance? The major has never had the opportunity to try the specialty of the region."

René paled. He would never get used to his unexpected and involuntary role as a member of the resistance. "No, I am sorry, but our snails are not fresh today. Our suppliers are slow. May, I recommend our onion soup, instead."

"No," replied the short one. "It is too hot for soup. We will take a rain check." He paused.

René leaned in. "You are the ones sent to take care of our package?"

"Yes," Hogan replied. He looked around and noted the place was full of Germans. "Find us a table please, and get us something to eat."

"Very well. Welcome to our humble café, Luftwaffe officers," René said in a louder voice. "Let me find you a table. Mimi, clear that one off quickly. I will get you both a drink and some food."

Mimi unceremoniously cleared off a table, sending the two village residents seated there scrambling. They grumbled and left. She wiped down the table, her grin beckoning the two resistance men in disguise. Once they were seated, she grabbed the tray holding two glasses of wine from René, and placed the glasses in front of the men. Winking at the shorter one, she sashayed away, bumping into the other waitress, Yvette, who had returned from the kitchen.

"Watch where you're going." Yvette looked over Mimi's head, which was easy, as Mimi was rather short, and Yvette was tall. "Are those...?"

"Yes. The short one is cute. He also is French." Mimi only had eyes for René. She was his mistress, of course. However, she was French, after all, and her eyes roamed.

Yvette only had eyes for René. She was his mistress, of course. They were to run away together, and be married. But to her regret, war business always seemed to get in the way. But, glancing at the two men disguised as Luftwaffe officers, she couldn't help but notice that the tall one was very handsome. She was French, after all, and her eyes roamed.

"René, I need Mama's soup for her lunch." René's wife, Madame Edith, came out of the back room and went behind the bar. Well, technically, she used to be his wife. However, since he was "executed" by poor Captain Gruber, he was now René's twin brother of the same name, and Edith was single.

"It's ready. And I need you to dish something up for our guests." He pointed to the two Luftwaffe officers.

Edith's hand flew to her mouth. "René, Are those...?"

"Yes, they knew the code, and don't be too obvious."

"I will take them the food. Mimi, you will take the soup upstairs." Edith hurried into the kitchen and filled up two plates. She then carried them out of the kitchen and over to the table, where the two men were sipping their wine.

"Welcome to Café René, officers. I am your hostess, Madame Edith." Her eyes fixated on the taller man, a major from the looks of it. The shorter man translated.

Hogan stood up and offered a small bow. "Thank you," he answered in French, and then took his seat.

Edith fluttered her fake eyelashes and lay down the plates. "I hope you enjoy your lunch."

Hogan and LeBeau exchanged a look.

All this action did not go unnoticed by the German colonel and the female private seated at the table by the window.

"Why are Luftwaffe officers down this way, Colonel?" Helga asked.

"I don't know. They are probably on their way to someplace else." He took a sip of wine. "I will try to find out."

"It seems odd that they would stop in such a small place." Helga put a piece of bread in her mouth, and chewed it very slowly. Suddenly, she noticed she had caught the eye of the Luftwaffe officer who did not appear to speak French. There was an almost imperceptible nod and a slight turn of the mouth.

"Helga. Helga."

The private, now lost in the in eyes of the officer, was startled out of her trance.

"Yes, Colonel."

"I need to get back to my office," he said. "Lieutenant Gruber should be back shortly. Here." He threw some currency on the table. "Settle the bill."

"Yes, Colonel."

As the colonel left the restaurant, a tall gendarme entered the building. He paused for effect, and then spoke. "Good moaning."

René looked up and let out a sigh. "Good moaning." He went back to drying the glasses.

Hogan and LeBeau turned around.

"There is a German Kübelwoogen picked on the wrong sood of the square. It is alternoot sode of the street picking today."

"What did he say?" Hogan asked LeBeau, who shrugged.

Yvette hurried over. "He said, 'there is a German Kübelwagen parked on the wrong side of the square. It is alternate side of the street parking today.'" She bent down and whispered in LeBeau's ear. "That is Officer Crabtree. He is with us. He thinks he can speak French."

"You will node to mive it, or it will be tude."

"Let's go," Hogan said to LeBeau. The two, followed by Crabtree, left the café and walked over to the wagon. "LeBeau, move this to the other side." Hogan saw Crabtree nod. They waited until LeBeau drove the wagon away.

"I'm with British intelligence," Crabtree whispered to Hogan in English. They watched as LeBeau parked the wagon, and walked back over.

"Your French accent is abysmal," LeBeau commented.

Crabtree looked down upon the corporal and sniffed. "I don't have any problems," he stated. "We were told you were coming to handle moving two British airmen," he said. "We need to meet with the leader of the area resistance." He paused and nodded at two passers-by. "In the private room of René's cafe tonight at 2200."

"We'll be there. We will be staying in their rooms upstairs," Hogan replied. "Who were those two Germans sitting by the window?"

"The Kommandant, Colonel Kurt von Strohm, and his secretary, Helga Geerhar. And now, I must go." Crabtree turned and walked towards the police station.

"This place is very odd," LeBeau commented as he and Hogan walked back towards the cafe. The German secretary passed them by as they entered the courtyard.

"Second that." Hogan stopped and allowed LeBeau to hold open the door for him. He then walked over to the bar and approached René. LeBeau quickly followed. "Tell him we will take a room," Hogan said. He gave a quick look around. The place had emptied, and it was safe to speak freely. "And we know about the meeting at 2200."

LeBeau repeated the request in French, and René replied back to the corporal.

"He will take us upstairs," LeBeau said. "He will arrange to have a private dinner for us in the back room. That way the meeting can take place."

* * *

Helga made her way to Herr Flick's not so secret quarters, and knocked on the door with a pre-arranged code. To her disgust, Flick's underling, the short and creepy Von Smallhausen, let her in. He leered at her as she walked down the stairs to Flick's private lair. As per custom, he was seated behind the desk. He remained there.

"I was not expecting you."

"No, Herr Flick."

"Do you have something to report?"

"Yes, Herr Flick."

"Sit." He pointed to the chair.

She sat. "I was having lunch in Cafe René when two Luftwaffe officers came in and sat at a table."

"Who were they?"

"They did not give their names. They drove up in a Kübelwagen. One did not speak French. His aide did and translated."

"Why would two Luftwaffe officers show up here?" Flick rose from his chair, and walked around to the front of the desk. "Von Smallhausen?"

"The scenery?" he suggested.

"No." Flick hit his underling over the head with his cane.

"That was our question as well, Herr Flick." Helga twisted around in her chair so she could keep an eye on Himmler's godson.

"Goering is a connoisseur of art. They are most likely here to steal the painting of the Fallen Madonna with the Big Boobies for his collection."

"You are brilliant, Herr Flick."

"Yes, I know Von Smallhausen."

"Couldn't they just be passing through on their way to someplace else?" Helga asked.

Flick stared at her. "Not likely. Helga, you will find out everything there is to know about these two. Where are they from? Whom do they report to? Where are they going? I wager I am correct."

"Yes, Herr Flick."

"It's a good thing we have the real painting hidden here, Herr Flick." Von Smallhausen glanced over at its hiding place in the wardrobe. "And two forgeries."

Helga stood up, ready to leave. But first, she had one thing to take care of. "May I kiss you, Herr Flick?"

"Yes, you may."

Flick stood, a statue in black, while Helga kissed him. Finally, breathless, she maneuvered herself away from the Gestapo officer and stepped back.

"You are dismissed," said Flick, giving no indication of even a minor rise in his blood pressure.

Helga ran her fingers through her hair and straightened her uniform. "Yes, Herr Flick." She turned and walked out of the not-so-hidden lair.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3_

Hogan and LeBeau were a bit perturbed about the state of things in Nouvion, as well as the apparent amateur behavior of whom they had met so far. They remained in their room for the rest of the afternoon and evening, only leaving to use the bathroom down the hall.

"I sure hope this resistance leader we are meeting knows what he's doing," LeBeau commented to Hogan as they studied maps of the area.

"Maybe it's Nighthawk." Hogan opened the desk drawer and found the ever-present bible, a phone directory, and several brochures. "Here, LeBeau. Take a look at these. They look like tourist literature."

"People probably passed through here before the war," LeBeau stated. He reached over and grabbed the pamphlets. Their room, while adequate, was small. It just provided the necessities: two twin beds, a small writing desk, a wardrobe, a washbasin, and a chamber pot. A mirror was attached to the inside of one of the wardrobe doors. The owner's waitress had thoughtfully filled the basin with warm water. A bar of soap, probably bought with ration coupons, sat on top of the two folded towels placed next to the basin.

The two men did not unpack, as they expected to be out of Nouvion by the next morning. Ever mindful of his surroundings and possible escape routes, Hogan walked over to the window and stared out at a brick wall. There was a small fire escape attached to the outside wall, and as he looked up, he could see the roof of the building next door. Making some quick calculations in his head, he figured that he and LeBeau could, if push came to shove, make it from the fire escape to the roof of the adjacent building. "Look at this."

LeBeau left the bed and walked over to where Hogan stood.

Hogan pointed to the roof. "We can get up there."

LeBeau stared out. "It will not be easy, Colonel, but if necessary, I can do it."

"Good man." Hogan grinned. "So what's there to do in Nouvion?"

"Not much, as I suspected." LeBeau opened a pamphlet. "The chateau used to be open to visitors. That was the home of the Fallen Madonna painting, as well as other pieces of art. Probably stolen by the Boche."

"They've set up headquarters in the chateau," Hogan stated.

"Naturally." LeBeau continued his travelogue. "There is a small museum, a small library, and a winery that is located outside the town limits. This is a typical small French village. The wealthiest man in town is named Alphonse."

"How do you figure that?" Hogan asked.

"The Alphonse Bibliothèque Publique. The Alphonse École for tous les enfants. The mortuary. That is big business. See, there is an advertisement on the tourist pamphlet." LeBeau pointed out the business card sized blurb.

Hogan opened the phone directory. "Here he is. A lot of listings." Hearing something, the colonel held up his hand. There was a rhythmic pounding coming from the floor above theirs. Three large knocks and a pause. Three large knocks and a pause. "What is that?" He heard movement outside. The stairs were not far from their room, and he quickly opened the door and looked out. A middle-aged woman, carrying a tray holding a large bowl of soup, was just exiting the top step. Startled by Hogan's appearance, she stopped, sloshing the soup a bit. It was Madame Edith.

"I'm sorry, Madame," Hogan said. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"I don't speak English, Monsieur." Edith walked a few steps closer, and realized that the American agent was extremely handsome. "I am taking my mother her dinner," she stated, although she realized he did not understand.

Hogan understood the words mother and dinner. "Votre maman?" he asked, and pointed upstairs, as LeBeau appeared behind him.

Flattered that the American attempted to speak some French, Edith blushed. "Yes. She is mostly confined to bed. Oh, did you hear her pounding? That was her cane. Calling for me."

The pounding began again. "Edith! Edith! Oh, will no one hear the cries of an old woman?"

"Coming, mama." Edith turned to LeBeau. "I have to go. She gets impatient." She turned towards the stairs, and paused. "She would love to meet you."

"I don't think that is a good idea, Madame Edith." LeBeau felt he could answer her invitation without checking with the colonel. "We are not dressed appropriately." He then turned to Hogan and explained.

"Good call, LeBeau. Tell her another time, perhaps."

"Very well." Edith showed her disappointment. "I will be singing tonight in the dining room. I do hope you will join us before your private meeting."

LeBeau translated, and Hogan gave the proprietor one of his wickedly handsome smiles. "Tell her we will be honored."

 _HhHhH_

Colonel von Strohm and Helga took their seats at their usual table by the window that evening. This was the first chance Helga had to inform the colonel about Herr Flick's suspicions. "I have something to tell you," she whispered to him as they observed the two Luftwaffe officers taking their seats. "About..." she turned her eyes towards the newcomers.

"Hold that thought, Helga." The colonel took a sip of wine. "Wait for Captain Gruber."

"Very well." Helga tried not to stare at the two men seated at the other table. She now admitted to herself that the tall, dark one, while not anywhere as handsome or Aryan as Herr Flick, was extremely attractive. She then noticed something missing. "They have no cheese," she murmured. "Should I bring them..." It was too late.

Hogan very quickly regretted his remark to Edith milliseconds after she opened her mouth and began her set. LeBeau's pained look would have been amusing if it wasn't for the fact that Hogan had to listen to the woman's caterwauling as well.

"Oy." Hogan moaned to himself.

"Mon colonel," LeBeau whispered. "I fear I cannot stand this torture much longer."

"Steady, boy." Hogan tried to slink down in his chair in a futile attempt to put some air molecules between him and grotesque sounds coming out of the proprietress's mouth. Sensing a presence, he looked up and saw the comely female private standing over him. She was holding a plate of cheese.

"Yes?"

"Use the cheese. Compliments of the colonel," Helga explained.

Hogan straightened. "Pardon?"

"In your ears. Look around."

LeBeau and Hogan glanced at the other customers. Both the French and the Germans appeared to have something stuffed in their ears.

"Seriously?" LeBeau asked. "This is ridiculous."

"When in Rome." Hogan poked the corporal. "Thank you, Fraulein..."

"Helga." She glanced longingly at the colonel as she walked back to her table.

"This actually helps," Hogan commented to LeBeau.

"I don't feel right about this," the Frenchman replied. "It is awfully rude."

"Don't look now. She's coming over."

Sure enough, Madame Edith, her ever-present scarf draped across her neck, was making her way through the tables, and heading in their direction.

"Here comes Gruber now," said von Strohm as he spied the tank commander through the window. Gruber entered the cafe and took a seat at the table.

"Glad you could make it, Gruber."

"Sorry I'm late, Colonel. I had trouble parking my little tank." He quickly spied the two newcomers seated at the nearby table. "Who are those Luftwaffe officers?" He stared at the tall one, and as their eyes met, Gruber felt the familiar butterflies in his stomach, which quickly disappeared as he caught a glimpse of René behind the bar.

"You missed them earlier. They are passing through. However, Helga has something to tell us. Go ahead."

The three leaned in together, Helga and the colonel removing their cheese. Helga whispered. "I spoke with Herr Flick. He believes that they are here for the painting of the Fallen Madonna. For Goering. I'm to keep an eye on things and report back to him."

"Good work, Helga."

"That makes sense, Colonel," said Gruber as he stuffed cheese in his ears. "It is no secret that he collects art."

"But the original is still in a sausage in René's cellar. We should warn him," the colonel said.

"Herr Flick has the original," Helga reported. "Remember?"

"Oh, yes. I've lost track. We need to get the original back," said the colonel.

"To be honest, I've also lost track. Anyway, I thought he was sending it to the Fuhrer," said Gruber.

"No. He had copies made, and he is sending a copy to the Fuhrer, and keeping the original for himself," explained Helga. "I think." She shook her head in confusion. "Honestly, I need a diagram to keep these things straight."

"Nevertheless, we don't want these two officers stealing the copies hidden in sausages. We may need them in the future. And we certainly don't want them hobnobbing with Flick and discovering the original." Von Strohm adjusted the cheese in his left ear.

 _HhHhH_

In order to be polite and not antagonize a brave member of the French resistance, both Hogan and LeBeau removed the cheese from their ears before Edith arrived at their table. They smiled up at her as she paused. She then began a rendition of _Lilli Marlene_ ; after all, everyone loved the song, no matter which side you were on.

"Start singing, Lieutenant," Hogan ordered.

"What?"

"You heard me. That's an order."

LeBeau stared at Hogan for a moment, and then opened his mouth. As his voice carried throughout the entire restaurant, Edith, momentarily flummoxed and insulted, stopped singing. She then shrugged, thinking the resistance member dressed as a Luftwaffe lieutenant was paying her the ultimate compliment, joining her in a duet. To Hogan's chagrin, she tried to match LeBeau's pitch, failing miserably.

Gruber, for his part, took his eyes off the Luftwaffe senior officer, and taking the cheese out of his ears, became entranced with the shorter junior officer. "His voice is delightful," he told von Strohm when Edith stopped to take a breath. Cupping his chin in his right hand, the lieutenant sighed in ecstasy. He then placed the cheese back in his ears.

"You have a nice voice, too, Gruber." The colonel patted his adjutant's hand.

"What?" asked Gruber.

"You have a nice..." The colonel reached over, poked Gruber and pointed to the tank commander's ears. Gruber removed them.

I'm sorry, Colonel. You were saying?

"You have a nice voice as well."

"Oh, that's very kind." Gruber sat up a bit straighter, preening like a peacock. "Perhaps I should join in?"

"No. I want you to engage the two Luftwaffe officers in conversation. They should speak with you." Seeing Helga's look of chagrin, the colonel said, "I'm sorry Helga. You may get your turn. Let's see what Gruber can discover."

It was too late. Just as Gruber pushed back his chair, René hurried over to the Luftwaffe officers' table.

"Your dinner is ready, officers. In the back room."

 _Thank goodness._ Hogan hurriedly stood up, and followed by LeBeau, who was also grateful for the interruption, they accompanied the Frenchman.

"Oh, darn." Gruber sat back down with a plop.

"We might as well eat," the colonel stated. "And when René comes out, you, Gruber, can warn him. Remember; be forceful. And remind him that we expect the copies of the painting will stay put...or else."

Gruber frowned, recalling how he was responsible for the firing squad that shot René's twin brother, René, dead. He still had nightmares about that day, and hallucinations as well. The guilt never left.

"Yes, of course," he said with little enthusiasm.

"Mimi." The colonel snapped his fingers. Both Edith and the other waitress, Yvette, had followed everyone into the back room. "We wish to order."

The diminutive resistance fighter and waitress strolled over. She despised all the Germans, and hated serving them.

"What do you want?" she asked, unafraid.

"To order," Helga said crisply, as she stared down the waitress.

"What will it be?"

"Oh, just bring us three specials," the colonel ordered.

"Three specials." Mimi left the table, mumbling to herself in French. She stopped by the piano on the way to the kitchen. "They are meeting in the back room," she whispered. "While I am gone, make sure no one goes that way."

"It is I, LeClerc." The piano player raised his eyeglasses.

"I know."

"I will make sure no one bothers the private party," he stated as he rose from his stool and walked over to the bar.

Hogan and LeBeau entered the back room. It was a fairly large area. A long table set for two was in the middle of the room, while two serving plates with covers sat in the center of the table. Fortunately, for the two hungry prisoners, there was food at each of the places. It was a cold dinner, but it looked tasty and substantial.

As everyone paused in the middle of the room, a tapping could be heard on the large window on the far side of the room. Hogan reached for the gun.

"That must be Michelle," Yvette said in a loud whisper.

"Who?" LeBeau asked.

"The leader of the local resistance," Edith explained as René opened the window.

"Nighthawk." LeBeau said as he motioned for Hogan to lower his weapon.

"Oh, no." Edith chuckled. "Nighthawk is..." She did not finish her sentence as Michelle climbed over the sill.

Hogan and LeBeau could not help but stare at the young attractive woman entering the room. She was dressed in a trench coat, beret, and for some reason, bobby socks and Mary Janes. But, despite her odd appearance, she held herself confidently. She walked forward and presented herself. "I am Michelle, leader of the local resistance. Not the Communist resistance," she said in English, with vitriol plain in her tone. "The other resistance. Vive la France."

LeBeau stepped forward. "Vive la France."

Michelle looked down at the corporal and gave him a small smile. "So, you are the experts sent here by London?"

Hogan stepped forward. "Yes. We understand you have had issues getting two British airmen out of the area and back to England."

"Yes. I confess, I must agree at this point. Although for the life of me," Michelle said. "I can't understand why all of the plans have failed." She then translated her words into French.

"Ha! What a shock!" René shook his head as Michelle glared at him. Meanwhile, Edith poked her husband, shushing him at the same time.

"They failed because they were too elaborate," Yvette whispered to LeBeau.

"I understand how you feel," he replied. "Except for some reason, his plans usually succeed."

"What are you saying?" Hogan asked LeBeau.

"Nothing important, sir."

"So where are these two airmen?" Hogan asked.

"Oh, closer than you think." Michelle walked over to the table, and to the two POW's shock, she lifted the two covers off the serving trays. Two British heads suddenly popped up.

"Hello," they both said in unison, in a very heavy English accent. Hogan and LeBeau's mouths hung open.

"Hello, Chaps," Michelle said. "I'll explain. These two gents dressed as Luftwaffe officers were sent here by London to get you two out. They are the experts."

"Jolly good show, Michelle," said Carstairs. He turned his head towards Fairfax. "Hopefully we'll get back in time for lawn tennis season."

Hogan shook his head a bit and held out his hands in a slightly confused expression, while LeBeau's eyebrows rose in confusion.

"Righto. We've got to make plans. Down you go, where you're more comfortable. Oh, have you eaten?" Michelle asked.

"Yes, Madame Edith dropped us some sandwiches a short while ago. It's quite cozy down here. Like camping in the dining room with mummy while I was a boy. At the estate."

Michelle replaced the covers after the two airmen and their mustaches disappeared underneath the table.

"I get the feeling we're not in Kansas anymore," LeBeau whispered to his C.O.

"Right. Now listen carefully, I shall say this only once," Michelle said in French.

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" LeBeau asked in English. "I was distracted by thoughts of Munchkins."

"And you could play one." Michelle, switching languages again, glared at LeBeau. "Pay attention!"

"Easy, LeBeau." Hogan held back his corporal, while the French café staff looked on in confusion. "No insults. I don't care who you are." He stepped forward and he and the resistance leader, looking ridiculous in her bobby socks and kid's shoes, engaged in a stare down.

"I apologize, Monsieur. That was uncalled for," Michelle said in a properly contrite tone, as she ogled the unbelievable gorgeous head of hair on the tall, dark and handsome American agent standing in front of her. And she, more than anyone, knew things about heads of hair. After all, she spent a great deal of time at the hairdresser. She flicked a strand away from her eyes.

"Apology accepted," Hogan replied as he got lost in the resistance leader's beautiful eyes and impossibly long eyelashes.

A head below Papa Bear, LeBeau could see what was happening. _Oh, Mon Dieu, he thought. He's falling. First Tiger, then Suzanne, then the cabaret singer, then the underground agent, and now her. Never fails_. "Colonel," he hissed in a whisper. "Pardon me, but we need to focus."

Hogan, now brought back to earth, took a breath and stepped back. "Our plan is to get the two airmen out as our prisoners. Since we are Luftwaffe, that would be normal procedure. They will come back with us in our Kübelwagen."

"Back where, Monsieur?"Asked Michelle.

"That's classified," Hogan responded. "But we have a 98 percent success rate. I assure you, they are in good hands. Have them ready by 0500 tomorrow morning."

Michelle nodded. She walked over to the table and knocked. Carstairs poked his head out of the bottom. Michelle bent down and said, "0500 tomorrow morning, chaps. You'll be leaving with these agents. They'll be taking you out as their prisoners."

Carstairs nodded in acknowledgment and disappeared.

"I'll notify Officer Crabtree," Michelle noted as she walked over to the window. Turning to face the cafe staff, she said. "The two agents will pick up the two British airmen at 5 am. The airmen will be disguised as their prisoners. They will then leave the area."

"Oh, that sounds wonderful," Edith exclaimed.

"I'll be happy to get them out of my hair," René said.

"What little you have," Yvette whispered.

Michelle shook her head, and disappeared.

"Go ahead, gentlemen. Finish your dinner. Yvette, more wine." René clapped.

"Should be a piece of cake," Hogan said to LeBeau several minutes later, as they were enjoying their simple meal.

"Or piece of pie," LeBeau countered.

Hogan laughed, then frowned. _Or does this seem too easy?_ he thought to himself.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4_

As Helga, von Strohm, and Lt. Gruber waited impatiently for the two Luftwaffe officers to reappear, Herr Flick and Smallhausen commiserated in their lair.

"Shouldn't you wait for Helga to report back, Herr Flick?" Smallhausen limped over to the desk, where Flick was rifling through a manual.

"No. It is Gestapo policy to be proactive," Flick replied in a clipped tone. He stopped at a page. "Here. We can keep a closer eye on these two officers if they do not have transportation."

"And how will you do that?" asked Smallhausen.

"We will steal their car. There are detailed instructions in the Gestapo manual. How to jumpstart a Kübelwagen in four easy steps."

"Brilliant," Smallhausen said, clapping his hands together, not for the first time, reminding Flick of Dr. Frankenstein's assistant, Igor.

"Yes, it is. We will get up at 0300, and steal it."

"We?" asked Smallhausen with a sigh.

"Yes." Flick reached over and hit his assistant over the head. "We."

Rubbing his head...Smallhausen was developing a large permanent bump on the top of his pate, he acknowledged his boss. "Yes, Herr Flick."

 _HhHhH_

An ebullient René left the back room and reappeared behind the bar. Seeing this, Gruber sashayed over and leaned on top.

"Hello, René."

"Captain."

"You look quite happy, René. Pleased to see me?"

"Not quite, Captain." Seeing the look on the tank commander's face, René quickly added. "Don't take it personally." He quickly removed a glass down from the shelf and poured some liquid into it. Handing it to the captain, he said. "Here. On the house."

"I never do. Take it personally, I mean." Gruber took a sip of the wine, then leaned into the counter. "I have something to tell you. A warning."

"Oh?" René began to have an uneasy feeling in his stomach. "Yes?"

'It's about those two Luftwaffe officers. We believe they are not who they seem."

"Go on." René began to sweat.

"We think they are here to steal the painting."

René straightened. "The what?"

"They are from the Luftwaffe. Goering is a big art collector. They are here to steal the Fallen Madonna with the..." Gruber made a motion in front of his chest. "The original now being held by Herr Flick is in danger, and the copies you have hidden in sausages may be in danger as well."

René relaxed. "Thank you for the warning, Captain."

The colonel says, '''We expect the painting to stay put...or else.'"

"The copies will stay put." René removed Gruber's empty glass and did not refill it. "It's not my problem what happens to the original."

"Well, technically, it is. Colonel von Strohm wants that painting back." Gruber said not unkindly. "Remember, he knows about the downed airmen you helped. There's more. Herr Flick believes the same. He will be watching."

René began to sweat again. "Thanks for the warning."

"Always my pleasure, René." Gruber smiled and walked back to his table.

"It is getting late," said von Strohm. "We should be getting back, Gruber. You will come by tomorrow morning and speak with those two Luftwaffe officers then. René?" he waved the proprietor over to the table.

Rene, who was wiping down the bar, put down his cloth and walked over. He let out a sigh. "Yes, Colonel."

I expect a call from you if and when you see the two Luftwaffe officers leave. And when they do, they best not have the painting-originals or copies-with them."

"Yes, Colonel. The captain already made that clear."

"Good." Von Strohm grinned. He stood up.

"Gruber, pay the tab. Come Helga."

Gruber gave René a sheepish smile, threw some bills on the table and hurried after his two colleagues.

"I'd best warn those two agents," René said to himself. Seeing Mimi, he told her to watch the bar. He had no idea where LeClerc had disappeared. The forger was probably upstairs spending time with Edith's mother.

Only Edith was in the backroom when he opened the door. "Where are Yvette and the two agents?"

"Yvette took them downstairs. They wanted to familiarize themselves with every room and exit. The leader is a very careful and intelligent man," she added, smiling.

René nodded. "Well, I need to let them know that all the Germans seem to think they are working for Goering, and are here to steal the painting."

Edith laughed. "They are probably the only ones in Nouvion not interested in that painting," she said. For once, René agreed with her.

* * *

"And this is our storeroom." Yvette opened the door, switched on a light, and stepped aside as Hogan and LeBeau entered. The two explored the area, taking note of hiding spaces, windows and exits. Hogan pointed to the food hanging from the ceiling and LeBeau nodded and smiled.

"Looks good. Let's go," Hogan said.

LeBeau addressed Yvette. "Thank you, miss."

"You're welcome. Anytime you need me to show you into a back room, just let me know." Yvette frowned. _That did not come out the way I meant,_ she realized. _Never mind._ She shrugged.

"Of course." LeBeau admired the physique of the friendly waitress, and followed Hogan up the stairs. René and Edith met them at the top.

"Ah, Gentlemen. A brief warning. Kind of silly really," Rene said.

As LeBeau translated, the hair on Hogan's arm stood up.

"Warning? Nothing is silly in this war. What's up?' he asked.

René began to explain as he escorted the two towards their room.

"The Germans seem to think you are here to steal artwork for Goering."

LeBeau laughed. "The Germans, both the Kommandant and his staff, and the local Gestapo think we are here to steal artwork for Goering."

Hogan laughed as well. "Not guilty." He thought for a moment. "Ask them about this Gestapo office. How big is it, and do we need to worry about it?"

"There are only two agents here, sir. Herr Flick and his henchman, Smallhausen," René answered LeBeau.

"I shouldn't bother about them too much," Edith added reassuringly.

"We'll be out of here very early." Hogan opened the door. "I'm not too worried. But, we will be extra careful," he told LeBeau. "We'll keep watch all night. The two of us will take turns."

"Very well, monsieur." René led everyone up the stairs. "You know where to find me if there is a problem."

* * *

"I'll take the first shift," Hogan told LeBeau after the French civilians left for their rooms. He checked his gun, and made his way down to the main level. This was not an unusual situation, and he was well equipped to handle a two-hour watch.

Meanwhile, LeBeau set the alarm, and then like all soldiers in wartime, he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

The warning about the artwork forgotten, after all, it was the last thing on their mind, Hogan spent an uneventful two hours in the cafe. Glancing at his watch, he got up, stretched and walked over to the window. After briefly looking outside, and seeing nothing amiss, he turned. "Right on time," he stated as LeBeau stepped off the stairway.

"Anything to report, Colonel?"

"Quiet as a mouse. You?"

"Rien." LeBeau headed over to the table and was about to sit down, when he paused. "Actually, there is something. I thought I saw something odd in the storeroom down below. Do you mind if I take a quick check? It was probably nothing. Just a shadow, perhaps."

Hogan frowned. "Dangerous?"

LeBeau shook his head. "Likely not. Something odd with the food."

"Go ahead." Hogan handed LeBeau a lantern, and then joined him at the entrance leading downstairs. He watched as his corporal walked down, and then the colonel stepped aside, as he did not want to turn his back away from the front of the restaurant.

LeBeau swung his lantern around, the light showing to his relief that he was the only human in the vicinity. He then stood at the bottom of the stairs and tapped the wall. Hearing this, Hogan turned and looked down.

"All clear. No one here."

"Good, but make it snappy," Hogan replied.

LeBeau walked back to where his suspicions were first aroused; the sausage links hanging from the ceiling. This time he had more time to investigate. Grabbing a chair, he hopped up and held his lantern close to the casings. His chef's eye spied the imperfections right away. _What is inside of you_? He asked himself, as he removed the offending pieces of pork from their hooks. Hopping down from the chair, he placed the meat on the table, and quickly gave them a once over. Then, using a knife he had in his pocket, he expertly cut into the meat. To his surprise he found not ammunition, diamonds or explosives, but a roll of paper. His eyes opened wide as he discovered what was hiding inside the first sausage.

"How's it coming?" Hogan, now a bit impatient, had gone down a few steps. He couldn't see where his man had gone, but he heard the scraping of a chair on the floor. Quickly, LeBeau appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

"It was my imagination," the Frenchman stated as he began climbing the stairs. "Everything is okay."

"Good. Hogan stifled a yawn. "See you in two hours."

 _HhHhH_

As the population of Nouvion slept, Smallhausen and Herr Flick made their way to the town square. Pressing his back against a building, Flick peeked around the corner. Tonight, the lax security in the area was to his advantage. He looked at his watch, and then timed the two German soldiers patrolling the area.

"How long do we have?" Smallhausen asked nervously. He was quite used to Flick's failures, but like always, the aide gamely went along with his superior's crazy and convoluted schemes. After all, what choice did he have?

"Exactly 3 minutes and 20 seconds," answered Flick crisply. "We will wait for their next pass and then go." He held up his hand; then when the time came, the two Gestapo agents limped across to the Kübelwagen.

"No keys," Smallhausen announced.

"That only happens in the movies," Flick stated as he removed a manual from his pocket. "Page five. _No keys? No problem!_ Well, what are you waiting for, Smallhausen?" Flick tapped his cane on the ground. Crawl in there and follow my instructions."

To Smallhausen's utter shock, the instructions worked. The wagon started, and before the patrol could notice, the Gestapo agents drove off in the Luftwaffe officers' transportation.

For his part, LeBeau was on watch for anything or anyone suspicious attempting to enter the cafe from either the front or the back. He would never have noticed a vehicle leaving the town square, unless it was parked right outside the cafe. Unfortunately, due to the alternate side of the square parking enforced by the British spy disguised as a French Gendarme, their transportation was not in sight; one of the few times Hogan and company had, for lack of a better word, goofed.


End file.
